


Star Maps

by Solrika



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Brainships, Dad Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, M/M, Spaceships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 11:31:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11012565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solrika/pseuds/Solrika
Summary: “Well, shoot,” Jesse murmurs,  gently resting a hand on the ship’s flank. “Someone wanted to make sure you never flew again.”-The salvage of the Sparrow intertwines with Gabriel's history, as Jesse tries to use the successes of the past to win a partner for the future.





	Star Maps

**Author's Note:**

> Despite having too many existing projects, I decided to pick up another. :|

This particular salvage yard’s known for turning up parts that’ll interface with any ship in the galaxy. It might be hidden in the most god-forsaken part of the Hanamura system, but with how cobbled-together the Deadeye is, Jesse’s not about to take any chances.He’d rather spend the money on fuel for the journey than a hundred replacement parts that won’t fit. 

He can see a new shipment of wrecks lying in the boneyard on descent, broken wings gleaming dully in the fire of Deadeye’s rockets. One of them boasts impressively massive engines for its size, and Jesse can already feel a bad financial decision coming on. “Here for couplers,” he reminds himself. “Don’t need another ship.” 

He keeps darting it glances, though, all through the landing sequence, and once he’s exchanged pleasantries with the owners he finds himself darting down the aisles of salvage straight for those beauties. Deadeye’s no slouch in the speed department, but those _engines_ —

Up close, though, it’s clear that out of the seven, Jesse might only be able to salvage two. The whole array’s scarred with plasma fire, three of the engines almost shorn in half. The rest of the ship hasn’t fared much better, when Jesse does a walk-around. Its wings are barely hanging on, secondary boosters shot off entirely, and he can glimpse missing sensor systems all along one flank. “Well, shoot,” Jesse murmurs,gently resting a hand on the ship’s flank. “Someone wanted to make sure you never flew again.” 

He can see glimpses of lurid orange under the scars, startlingly shiny under the char. “Sure is strange,” Jesse continues, yanking at the hatch until it creaks open. “Shell out for lacquer that has t’be replaced after a year’a reentries, and then not keep the stuff underneath for parts? Maybe you’re just a pretty face…” He manages to squeeze inside, holds up a light and stumbles along to reach the bridge.

“Oh. I stand corrected, darlin’.” Jesse lets out a low whistle, staring down at the consoles in front of him. They look like someone took a knife to them, but he can still tell what he’s looking at—something high-grade enough to make most of the Union’s navy jealous. He recognizes the brand of one of the best targeting systems in the galaxy. Those screens, dark now, have the little nodes around them that signal their hard-light capability. This is military, or something close. 

The poor little ship’s in bad shape, but something this quality doesn’t just get discarded entire. Even this far post-Crisis, Jesse’s seen navy dreadnoughts get stripped apart so the Union can use up every last resource, and civilian conglomerates generally do the same. At the very least, it should be in a more expensive yard than Mako’s little backwater business.

More inspection leads him to crew rooms, mostly untouched, with disturbingly comfortable beds. Five in all, and a common area—this ship is bigger than Deadeye, but not by much. There’s a kitchen, too, and an armory full of cabinets for absent weapons. Every few yards, panels are missing, the wires inside torn into an almost incomprehensible mess. 

Frowning, Jesse reaches out to brush a hand along the wall, trying to ignore the creeping feeling of wrongness up his spine. Plasma fire is expected. There’s still tension in the galaxy, after all. But this inside-out destruction? It looks almost cruel, as if someone wanted the ship to hurt. But static ships don’t feel—

Jesse stops. Fights the urge to run back to Deadeye. Instead, turns back to the bridge, and inspects the panels on the floor. It takes some time, and almost all the tools on his belt, but eventually he pries them up. Underneath is insulation, and under that is shielding that looks sickeningly familiar. 

“It’s not there,” he tells himself. “Y’know how it is, if you can salvage the core it’s the first thing out. ’s just mean otherwise.” Slotting his fingers under the shielding, he adds, “You’re just creepin’ yourself out, Jesse McCree. There’s no way this thing is still alive.” 

Ten minutes later, he’s out in the air again, comm pressed to his ear. “Gabe?”

“Jesse?” The voice that answers isn’t who he wants to hear, but it’s close enough.

“Morrison,” he takes a breath, tries to figure out what to say. “Morrison, how busy ‘re you two?”

There’s a long, exasperated sigh. “Did you get yourself thrown in jail again?”

“No! No, that was _one time_!” Jesse pulls at his hair. “Look, don’t sass me, I found somethin’ weird.”

Morrison’s I’m-being-very-patient face is almost audible. “Weird how?”

“I found a brain ship.” Jesse turns back to the wreck, dares to pat its flank. “Morrison, it’s in pretty bad shape, but it’s _alive_. The poor thing’s still active.” He hears the pause, adds, “I thought maybe you could send in a mechanic team—“

“We’re coming.”

“What? No, I know you’ve got responsibilities ’n’ shit, just send someone—“

“No.” If Morrison was inclined to pacing, Jesse knows he’d be hearing it now. “No, if it’s alive, we’re coming. I’ll get Deadeye’s coordinates and we’ll be there soon.” 

“Y’sure?” Jesse’s less patting, more stroking the ship’s flank now. He almost fancies it’s leaning into it, listening in. “I mean, I don’ wanna get y’in trouble…”

“We’re coming,” Morrison says, firmly as a dreadnought to the face, and with that Jesse knows it’s happening whether the Union wants it to or not. “I’ll send you the ETA in a minute.”

“Okay.” Jesse resists the urge to tug at his hat like a child again. “Thanks, Morrison.” 

“I’m not doing this for you,” Morrison replies, which Jesse knows is three quarters reassurance—Jesse won’t take the fall if the Union gets too upset—and one quarter Morrison just being an ass. “Signing off.” 

“Seeya.” The connection clicks quiet, and Jesse turns to look up at the ship. The sensors on the hull are missing, so he dares to slip back inside to the bridge. Keeping his distance from the hole in the floor, he says, “I just called some friends, an’ they’re gonna come help, okay? I’m gonna purchase you so no one else takes you, an’ then we’ll get y’sorted.”  

Kneeling down to gently stroke the floor, Jesse murmurs, “I dunno how y’got here, but I promise, ’s gonna be okay. I’ll make sure of it. ’s all gonna be okay.” 


End file.
